This poem is dedicated to my brothers: three who never leave the water and the one who can’t wait to join them. To the uncle who all too gladly shares his water. To the grand-man of the same blood who inspired them with his life and to the man with the canoe who is starting a fishing legacy of his own.

‘Come to me, all you who are weary ladened

and I will grant you rest’

And so to the rivers and streams His whisper runs

while into them He slipped his best.

 

He taught the salmon to swim upstream,

He showed the catfish where to hide,

He directed the suns strong beam

to catch the rainbow on the trouts glimmering side.

 

‘Come, come’ He calls to the heavy souls,

‘come wash away the past.

Come place your feet in the cold, cool deep,

come teach your line to cast.’

 

And so the man, inclined his ear

and called his aching bones to rise,

to walk the road down to the water

to gain the well earned prize.

 

He learned to call the fish by name,

and taught his feet to stand,

while all around the river tamed

to his ever moving hand.

 

Over and over he followed that road,

at the end of a long, hard day.

The current called ‘come lighten the load!’

and later, later he stayed.

 

‘Last cast, last cast,’ he’d promise himself

but the promise was in vain

for his heart asked for another one

and his arm would throw again.

 

 

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